


Popular British Art

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7301035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilogue to The Very Eyes of Me, a Johnlock AU novel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Popular British Art

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, if people judge a story by the title, they might skip this. When I saw the title, I was delighted because it gave me the chance to revisit a universe I love. So writing this was a bit of an indulgence. And it must be said that if you have not read my novel The Very Eyes of Me, this might not make much sense. Can I issue just a little recommendation? I am very proud of that story and hope you might enjoy it.
> 
> Anyway, if you have read it and enjoyed it, I hope you will be pleased to revisit the characters years later.

The National Gallery sent a car, which was kind of them, John said, while checking [again] to be sure that he had his wallet and a couple of Sherlock’s pills, just in case. Sherlock himself, still looking for his eyeglasses, grumbled that the sight of the long black limousine sitting at the end of their drive reminded him unpleasantly of his brother.

John had finally located his polished walnut walking stick, behind the sofa as usual, where Sherlock was prone to hiding the thing, insisting that John really didn’t need to use it. John, who differed with that opinion, snickered in response to Sherlock’s complaints. He didn’t bother to point out that Mycroft was now ninety, living quietly with his companion in Hampstead Heath, and not sending cars to them anymore.

He also did not bother to say that the elder Holmes had already assured John that he had every intention of showing up at today’s event. There was no sense in having to listen to Sherlock whinge all the way from Sussex to London. Well, anymore than he was already going to whinge anyway.

Finally they were both tucked into their coats, with wallets and pills and walking stick in place, ready to walk out to the waiting car. John paused just for a moment, brushing some non-existent lint from the front of the old Belstaff. “You look very dashing,” he said softly. “Just like you did when we met in Paris.”

Sherlock snorted, but then preened a bit as he always had and still did at John’s praise. As they walked slowly up the path, passed the lingering remains of this season’s roses, which John tended so carefully, Sherlock frowned slightly. “And we did not meet in that gallery in Paris, John,” he pointed out, as he always did. “We met in the field hospital years earlier.”

The driver had jumped out and was now opening the car door for them.

“We never even spoke then,” John pointed out, letting Sherlock duck and get into the back seat first.

Sherlock dismissed that with a negligent wave. It was an old argument and John doubted that it would be resolved in the time it took them to get to Trafalger Square. Instead of continuing the discussion, he reached into the small compartment and pulled out a bottle of water. After taking a drink, he offered it to Sherlock, who shook his head.

Setting the bottle aside, he used one hand to push a few stray silver curls from Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m very proud of you, love,” he said. 

Sherlock gave a one-shoulder shrug. “No reason to be,” he replied. “Primarily all I have done is live long enough to become venerable.”

John realised that his own tie was a bit crooked and tried to straighten it, without much success, and so he fretted that his fingers would not always do what he wanted when he wanted. “Well, that is definitely not true. Although considering some of what you got up to in your life, living to this age _is_ rather an accomplishment.” He hoped Sherlock knew that he was talking about the man’s service in two world wars, acting as Mycroft’s most effective spy and not really about the unsavoury drug habit that might have extinguished Sherlock’s amazing mind and talent very early on.

Sherlock wearied of watching John’s fingers attempting to manipulate the tie and reached out to fix it himself.

“And the National Gallery did not say, ‘oh, Holmes is old now, let’s have a retrospective show.’ They are doing it because you are a brilliant artist and you deserve it. Just like you deserved the knighthood.”

“You have always held me in much too high a regard,” Sherlock muttered, finishing his fussing and letting his fingers linger just for a moment on John’s neck.

Another old argument.

But they just smiled at one another and settled in for the ride to London.

 

After they had arrived at the National Gallery and suffered [well, Sherlock suffered; John was not bothered] through the pomp of being greeted, including having many photographs taken and a brief interview with the BBC, they were finally ushered into the building. 

A slow journey up the marble staircase followed and then they were ushered into a large bright room filled with the evidence of Sherlock Holmes’ life. As always, John was nearly struck dumb by an overwhelming sense of awe. He had been privileged to spend his life with the man who had created such beauty and who also, for reasons unknown, loved him so completely.

There was still some time before the opening ceremony, so John took Sherlock by the hand and walked slowly through the gallery.

“Pah,” Sherlock said after a moment.

John followed his gaze to where Mycroft and his companion stood in the corner. “Be nice,” he said, as he had been saying for years.

The git planted a fake smile on his face and executed a half-bow towards his brother.

John kept them walking until they reached the centrepiece of the exhibition, a large painting of a young soldier on a stretcher, pale and bloody, in a hospital tent during the Great War. He could remember that day as if it had happened last week. After a moment, he glanced at Sherlock, who was also staring at the portrait.

Sherlock used their still linked hands to pull John even closer and held on even more tightly.

John cleared his throat. “You know,” he murmured, “I think you might be right after all.”

“Well, of course,” Sherlock said automatically. “About what?” came a moment later.

“I think we did meet that day.”

Sherlock gave a rare chuckle. Then he tilted his head down closer to John’s ear. “It has been an honour, John Watson.”

John blinked and did not say anything.

Before he could even think of _what_ to say, he saw one of the curators waving them over.

“It’s time, love,” he said.

Sherlock took a deep breath, John smiled at him, and they walked together towards the crowd of people waiting to honour Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Popular British Art by Noel Carrington & Clarke Houtton


End file.
